


Nobody's Pool Boy

by thecarlysutra



Category: Kiss Kiss Bang Bang
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-12
Updated: 2010-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-13 15:53:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/pseuds/thecarlysutra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>RATING: R, mostly for language<br/>SUMMARY: I have news for you, Gay Perry.  I am nobody’s pool boy.  I have skills.  I am more than a piece of meat.<br/>AUTHOR’S NOTES: Written as an extra treat for ncc_gqmf for the Yuletide 2010, based on her request, “Harry does stupid things.”<br/>THANKS: To my indomitable beta reader, ------.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nobody's Pool Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [juniper (junipermouse)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/junipermouse/gifts).



  
**Chapter One: Harry Got His Gun**

I guess maybe the only surprise is that Perry continued to let me anywhere near a firearm after my little math problem fucked up my Russian roulette by proxy thing, which totally would have worked, by the way. Whatever; it’s not like I do this kind of thing all the time. Rookie mistake. Anyway, I had to fuck up much bigger before he got testy about it. I got a little excited pumping this rat for information, and I fired a warning shot. Unfortunately, it didn’t occur to me—gee, Perry, maybe you shouldn’t slouch on the detective lessons; like this is all my fault?—to shoot it into the air, and the bullet kind of ended up in Perry’s car. Not, like, inside the car, like hey, Harry, hop in my car and we’ll go for some malteds. No, like _in_ the car, so that part of the bullet was inside the car and part of it was outside, and you knew that the repair bill was going to be huge, with his custom paint job and shit. And you know how girly he is about his car. I think it’s because gays can’t have babies; they get all attached to other stuff. I guess I should be glad he doesn’t have a fucking Pomeranian to carry around in a handbag and have permed or whatthefuckever. Anyway, he wasn’t cool about it.

“No more guns for you, ever again. If I see you with so much as a water pistol in your twitchy-fingered little hands, you had better be amidst preparations for hari kari, or I’m going to start them for you. I am not kidding about this. Repeat after me: no more guns.”

Geez, drama queen. All right, message received.

Still. It’s a dangerous line of work, and it would be stupid to go into the field unarmed, and not knowing that one thing—are you counting the Russian roulette thing, still? That was ages ago. Fuck it, not knowing two things—doesn’t make me stupid, just uninformed, and that would go away if Perry would stop leaving me home to answer the phone and actually take me out and show me how to detect things.

I thought that New York was the gun capital of the world; we practically got the fucking things in vending machines in schools, but it was super easy to get a gun in LA. They wanted to do this whole waiting period thing, but I told them I needed it to practice for a part I was up for any day now, and they expedited that shit. People respect a method actor in this fucking town, they really do. It’s like God, studio head, director, Meryl Streep.

Anyway, I got this awesome gun, some real old west shit, with a pearl handle. Or, fuck me, not handle, there’s a detective-y word for that—grips. Why it’s grips with an s, plural, instead of grip, singular, I don’t fucking know, except maybe “grip” is hard to say all the time, or “grips” sounds manlier, which is fucking ironic, considering I learned all this gun shit from a guy called Gay Perry. But seriously awesome, like I could be downtown shooting it out with Billy the Kid, pow pow.

Oh, whoa, wait, I almost forgot. That was actually the second gun. They didn’t want to sell me that one, special order or something, but it was just too cool, so when they were ringing up the shitty little Generic Gun that probably fell off the prop table for some straight-to-DVD buddy cop sequel, I sleight of handed the Billy the Kid gun.

Can you see this coming back to bite me in the ass? Well, good for you; you’re a regular fucking Einstein. It’s the first part of the story, and I take ten minutes going over my recent shopping? Like that won’t come back.

 

 **Chapter Two: Harry Lockhart, PI**

Did you know you have to pass a special test to be a private eye? I thought it was basically police work for people too lazy for the academy, or who couldn’t stand the thought of wearing all that polyester. That was Perry’s deal, I figured, before I learned about this multiple choice shit. The man’s not a slacker, but except when he was in the hospital after almost dying, I’ve never seen him in anything other than a suit that costs more than my rent.

Anyway. Apparently, doing detective work requires a license, and doing it without one is vigilantism, which is illegal. Personally, I’ve never been that caught up on ideas of legality, but when I floated the idea of actually doing some casework without the little government stamp past Perry, he went berserk, ranting and raving like I’d made him miss a sale at Neiman’s or some shit. But he also got me a little study booklet, which was sweet, if naïve. For all the shit he gives me, and the sheer number of times he works words like “idiot” into the conversation when he’s talking to me, he does actually seem to be quite optimistic about my natural proclivities.

Of course, it seems to be my goal in life to disappoint Perry. I think it might actually be disappointing if I varied from the script and did something to impress him, but anyway I’ve failed that stupid PI’s exam twice, because of course I didn’t study. I mean, this stuff is supposed to be common sense, right? Detectiving is just catching bad guys; shouldn’t the questions be stuff like, _If a guy is shooting at you, is he (a) a bad guy, or (b) a good guy?_ Apparently, the state has different ideas about what I, as a private detective hopeful, need to know. Shit about radar and the law and just stuff I’ve never even heard of. The point is, this time I’m actually studying, and also Perry _still_ won’t let me off the leash during cases.

“Answer the phone when it rings, Harry, and I’m talking first or second ring here; the minute details of _Days of Our Lives_ are not pertinent to your job, and don’t give me any more shit about you figuring out who Jessica’s going to sleep with next as practicing your detection skills. Take _detailed messages_ that people not privy to the chaotic fumblings of your mind can follow. Keep your feet off my fucking furniture, _never_ under any circumstances go in my bedroom, try on my clothing, or eat anything out of the refrigerator labeled, _I’m not fucking kidding, Harry, hands off._ Handle billing; if I don’t get paid, you don’t get paid, and it shouldn’t be too taxing for you; it’s just addition and subtraction, and I know that if you can focus for five consecutive fucking seconds, you can handle it. Am I making myself clear?”

Do you believe this shit? A year of following Perry around, picking up his dry-cleaning and licking his envelopes, and I’m not ready for real detective work yet? Please. Maybe he’s afraid of the competition, or maybe he just likes having me around; he’s keeping me as his secretary for the same reason he has the pool boy come by three times a week. Tell me that’s about pH levels, and not about a shirtless, perpetually-oiled Guatemalan teenager in Daisy Dukes. Well, I have news for you, Gay Perry. I am nobody’s pool boy. I have skills. I am more than a piece of meat.

 

 **Chapter Three: I Make This Look Good**

Perry was not kidding when he said ninety percent of this job is boring. Detective work has so much downtime, so much _waiting_. So much sitting still. Things I do not excel at include: sitting still.

“Stop it. Be still. You’re like a child.”

I grip the armrests, and drive my head into the headrest. Maybe if I’m physically immobile, I won’t feel the need to vibrate and twitch and paw through Perry’s glove compartment.

“This is so boring,” I whisper, and then remember that we don’t really need to whisper. “Why do you take me on stakeouts?”

“Let’s see. As I was leaving the house, telling you where I was going and to stay home and try not to break anything or order any more pornography on my television—and yes, I know you’re still doing that; I do not get off on titles like, _Naughty Schoolgirls III_ —you jumped about my heels like an anxious Pomeranian and begged, _begged_ me to let you come with me. Does that sound familiar?”

I certainly did not beg. Wait. Am I the permed Pomeranian? Perry does sometimes buy me clothes, or haircuts—“You look homeless. How do you leave the house looking like this? It’s like you try to subvert hygiene. Jesus, I should call your mother. Maybe you can still be returned for the rebate.”—does that make me his little handbag dog?

“Yeah, okay,” I say, but only so Perry’ll stop staring at me like he just saw me with my shoes on his Italian leather sofa.

Perry takes his eyes off me, and he perks up. Our mark is leaving.

“Your lucky day, motor mouth,” Perry says, and he starts getting out of the car.

Naturally, excited about my lucky day, I start getting out, too. Perry glares at me.

“Stay,” he says. He slams the door behind him.

Dammit. Maybe I _am_ the Pomeranian.

Perry picks the lock on our mark’s place, and disappears inside. Why it’s okay for Perry to B and E, but not me, I don’t understand; it’s not like having a PI license means you can break the law. But I guess he’s got all those police contacts who’ll look the other way. I could have police contacts, if he would take a second between mani-pedi’s to introduce me around. Super easy. Hey, fellas, this is my friend Harry, try not to arrest him, okay? Just think of him like me, but without the pillow munching and ridiculously sculpted hair.

Perry’s been poking around the mark’s house about three minutes when I can’t sit still any more, and I get out of the car. I haven’t even straightened up when I hear that familiar click of a pistol’s hammer being pulled back, and then the cold kiss of the barrel right behind my ear. Fuck fuck fuck.

“Nice and slow, honey.”

Men usually don’t call me honey, even little Italian guys with skinny jeans and waxed eyebrows. Maybe he thinks I’m Perry. Maybe he and Perry had a thing! Maybe Perry worked undercover with the mob, and then he messed up his case getting all hot and heavy with the Mafia boss’s son, and then he had to run off before he got whacked, and then the Mafioso’s son tracked him down, and—no, wait; if he and Perry had a thing, he should definitely know what Perry looks like. Strike that. I put my hands up.

 

 **Chapter Four: Okay, Mistakes Were Made**

Skinny jeans’ friend, a bald white guy with an earring and a white t-shirt, like either he’s really into Mr. Clean or he’s so self-involved he just thinks he looks good and has never considered that he resembles the mascot for a brand of toilet scrubbers, pats me down. He pulls the Generic Gun out of the back of my pants, where I stuck it—no holster, just hardcore awesomeness. Mr. Clean tucks the gun into his own pants, and shakes his head.

“Nothing,” he says.

“Where’s the gun?” skinny jeans asks.

“That—your friend took it! Or, maybe you’re talking about that one you’ve got in my face—! I—”

Mr. Clean slams me against Perry’s car so hard my teeth rattle. I shield my face and other soft, easily broken parts.

“Listen, guys—”

“Drop the gun, hands in the air.”

Yes, yes, fuck yes! Perry, gun drawn, comes out of the shadows. When he’s in Don’t Fuck With Me mode, you could never tell he’s gay; he’s just a bad motherfucker, and he’s got this voice that, like, you expect to hear coming out of a mountain or something, this voice that tells you absolutely every horrible thing that’ll happen to you if you don’t do what it says. It’s like Mr. Kool-Aid’s voice, but, you know, meaner.

Skinny jeans drops his gun. He and Mr. Clean both put their hands up.

I bound up to Perry’s side. “Perry, that genie-looking fucker, he’s got a gun.”

Perry nods like I’m telling him the mailman came, not like some bad guys who just held a gun on me and beat me up a little are still armed.

“Okay. Go get it.”

Perry holds the gun on the gangsters while I steal my gun back from Mr. Clean’s pants. I punch the air with it a little; okay, I know, it’s such a fucking cliché, but I do feel powerful and invincible and awesome when I’m holding a gun. It’s not a penis thing, I don’t think, although that would explain why Perry’s in this line of work. . . . I go back shoulder-to-shoulder with Perry, and I aim the gun at the guys, too, but then Perry shakes his head and holds out his hand like he’s asking me to give him my gum.

“I don’t think so,” he says.

“Dammit, Perry, come on, you’re making me look bad in front of—”

“Now,” Perry says, in his Doom voice, and so I hand it over.

“All right, gentlemen,” Perry says, “what’s the game tonight? Just a carjacking, or do you have some specific grievance with Harry here?”

“We’re looking for the gun,” skinny jeans says.

“I told you, _that’s_ my gun!”

Perry glares at me. “That’s _your_ gun? You do not _have_ a gun. You are not _allowed_ a gun, ever again. Did you forget this conversation? Did you get hit in the head? Are you listening to me right now?”

“Um,” I say.

Perry huffs, but he gets his Bad Ass Motherfucker mojo back soon enough to remember he’s got two bad guys to contend with.

“What do you want with his gun?”

“That’s the wrong gun,” Mr. Clean says.

“We’re looking for the 1812 special-made flintlock your friend lifted from a gun shop in Hollywood on Tuesday. Our boss has a special interest in the piece, in that he bought and paid for it and is pissed to find it suddenly off the market.”

Perry’s eyes go heavenward.

“So you not only bought a gun,” Perry says slowly, “but you also stole a rare and valuable antique gun?”

“How’d you know I bought a gun? I—”

Perry grits his teeth. “They tracked you from the information you left with the gun seller when you bought that piece of shit. Were you dropped on your head as a child? Why would you ever, _ever_ , for any reason, steal something hugely valuable from a place where you left every single piece of pertinent information that could be used to track you?”

“Um,” I say.

Perry lowers his gun, which—yeah, I know I’m not an expert at this PI thing, not passing the test or anything, but I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to keep your gun aimed at the other people during a standoff—seems pretty stupid.

“Where is the gun now? Please don’t say it’s at my house.”

I look at my shoes, but I can see Perry’s face perfectly in my mind as I answer.

“It’s at your house.”

 

 **Epilogue: A Knife to a Gunfight**

I thought Perry’s being all keyed up about the gun being at his house was more of his _Harry, I told you not to have a gun because I’m no fun of any kind, even though “gay” is a synonym for “fun,” blah blah blah_ thing, but he was really worried about more thugs tearing up his house looking for it, which is exactly what happened. I hate it when he’s right, especially because it’s near always, and he’s so fucking annoying about it. Anyway, the thugs fucked up his house, shit everywhere, which is why it’s three in the morning and I’m cleaning up Perry’s house, which looks like a really exciting party happened here, a party where the guest list included Guns N’ Roses and maybe a tiger. Perry made sure the thugs called off whatever price was on my head, and made the usual threats, and showed them out of the ruins of his posh, West Hollywood apartment, which is totally a cliché, Gay Perry living in some beautiful house in West Hollywood, but I live in a crappy apartment in Silver Lake, so I can’t talk.

Perry pointedly does not help me clean, although he follows around me, pointing to areas I have missed and reciting an increasingly long list of shit I have to do tomorrow, shit like shampooing the carpets and massaging his office chair’s upholstery—okay, maybe I should be listening more closely, because that doesn’t really make sense, but if I’m sure of anything it’s that he’ll tell me a thousand more times, so whatthefuckever.

Finally most of the mess is cleaned up. I take the garbage out, and then when I come back, Perry’s just sitting on his hugely expensive—though, extremely comfortable; I have napped there more than a few times when Perry was gone, and I can say that you definitely get what you pay for; it’s like sleeping on a big pile of baby birds—sofa, waiting for me with his _Oh, Harry, why do you make me do these things?_ face.

“Did you enjoy yourself this evening?” he asks.

I shrug, and come to sit with him on the baby bird couch. He wants an answer—hell, he maybe even deserves one—but I don’t have an excuse for my behavior, so I don’t say anything. Perry sighs, and he leans back against the plush Italian leather, and he looks at me.

“Have you ever considered that I give you the advice I do to keep you from fucking up your life?” he says.

I shrug again. Perry puts his hand on my shoulder, and then he changes his mind, and he frowns, and he withdraws his hand.

“Harry, once again, I am truly astounded that you didn’t manage to get yourself killed.” He stands, heads down the hall to his bedroom. Halfway there, he stops, shakes his head. “I am not fucking kidding about you shampooing the carpet, either. First thing, bright and early tomorrow AM.” He shakes his head again, like he just cannot fucking believe that he continues to put up with me.

“Fuckwit,” he adds, and disappears down the hall.  



End file.
